


Round and Round

by intricatearticulation (chemma66)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nervous Sherlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/intricatearticulation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes Sherlock on the first date to the state fair. They take a ride on the ferris wheel, and John makes his first move.</p><p>(Does the UK even have fairs? I dunno. I don't much care. Just roll with it, yall.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round and Round

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small, schmoopy ficlet that I wrote during NaNoWriMo. A little teenlock first kiss on a ferris wheel, because I woke up one day and this idea was just there?? It happens more often than I can say.
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, [myowneviltwin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/myowneviltwin/pseuds/myowneviltwin) who totally went with it when I emailed her out of the blue, like "hey I know I said I was working on this Crieffson thing but here are a bunch of other things, wanna edit them??"
> 
> More ficlets and fun things to come! (and yes, I did actually work on the Crieffson thing)

Sherlock was rambling. He knew it was happening and yet he couldn’t stop. He just kept prattling on about the people surrounding them and the students milling about the street fair below. Going on and on about their habits, what brought them here, who they were with, what classes they were taking, their grades… and John just listened. Didn’t cut him off, didn’t ask him to be quiet. He just _listened_.

Damn him.

Sherlock was unbearably nervous. He was sitting in this tiny cart on the ferris wheel (last repaired yesterday, would most likely be scrapped for parts once this carnival closed) with John Watson practically in his lap. Their thighs were pressed warmly together, John’s arm draped behind Sherlock. John  was probably gazing at him, or doing something equally horrible. But all Sherlock could do was look _anywhere_ but at him. He had to focus on something, anything else.

Because John Watson was sitting very close to him and he was 98.3% positive that John was going to try to kiss him.

Sherlock was terrified.

      “What about the couple above us, then?” John asked.

What? What was he even— oh. Right. Sherlock was deducing people around him, and John was actually paying attention.

      “It’s their anniversary. Been together….6 months? Dull. Why would anyone celebrate such an inane period of time? He’s obviously cheating on her. She’ll confront him soon enough.”

John finally turned away while Sherlock relaxed momentarily, glancing at the couple in the car above theirs. They had been obscured from view on the last turn around the ferris wheel, but it was obvious that they were enjoying each other for the moment, at least. Quite thoroughly.

“I dunno, they seem pretty happy,” John reasoned, and turned back to gaze at Sherlock.

Sherlock deliberately turned away to observe the crowd below. His palms were sweaty; he wiped them on his pants as discreetly as he could manage. He heard John chuckle, so he cleared his throat and began again.

“Hormones and close proximity. They’ve forgotten their current relationship troubles in order to indulge—“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. Sherlock’s eyes shifted over John’s face before darting away once more. Sherlock was wringing his hands, when had he started that?

      “I’m sorry John, I’m…” Sherlock began, but couldn’t finish. He swallowed. Loudly.

      “You’re…?” John asked, reaching his hand over to rest over Sherlock’s. It had the desired effect of stilling Sherlock’s hands, but his heart rate seemed to double at the contact.

      “I… I can’t help it. I can’t stop,” Sherlock murmured.

John leaned even closer, basically his _entire_ torso pressing against Sherlock. He had nowhere to retreat. Briefly, he considered climbing out of the cart - he could plead a broken mechanism, claim an outlying circumstance that required his attention, or—

John’s fingers brushed lightly against his cheek, tucking a stray curl behind his ears. Sherlock had to close his eyes at the sensation.

      “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asked, legitimately worried. His other hand lifted from its spot along the back of the seat to rest around Sherlock’s shoulders and rubbed briefly there.

      “I can’t stop!” Sherlock nearly shouted, startled by the close contact and feeling as though he might combust. He was disturbed by his own reactions, his trembling body, the nervousness coursing through him, and everything instilling the same thought in his head: John was _important_.  John was essential. He wanted John. He could _not_ screw this up.

John flinched back a bit at the words, his arm withdrawing from Sherlock’s shoulders to rest on the back of the seat. Sherlock thought he was safe, that maybe he succeeded in pushing John away. That would be much easier than going into this situation where everything was tenuous and unknown, and inevitably failing.

      “Sherlock, please. Just…” John, impossible, ridiculous John, reached over with his other hand, laying it on Sherlock’s thigh, attempting to bring him closer. “Just explain what’s wrong? I want to understand. You seemed fine earlier, and then…” John trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

And then we came up here, Sherlock finished in his head. You separated me from the things I could distract you with, and you got me on your own. And now you will realize that this night was a mistake, that wanting to go out with me was a mistake.

      “I can’t stop, John. Deducing everything, talking about anything to distract myself from… this. To pretend like this isn’t happening, like I’m not scared out of my mind,” Sherlock explained in a rush, his voice tremulous and quiet.

And John did draw back, taking his hand from Sherlock’s thigh and crooking his elbow so he was leaning in his own space, rather than directly into Sherlock’s.

      “You want to pretend like this isn’t happening?” John asked, the warmth of his concern completely gone.

Sherlock looked at John’s face then, and saw the hurt there.

      “No! That’s not— no. No, John. I want to be here. This is… this is perfect. And that’s why I’m scared, I— I know I’ll say something, do something, and you’ll regret this whole night, regret coming here with me, sure that I’m some kind of… some _freak_ and—“

      “Sherlock Holmes,” John began, replacing his arm and drawing Sherlock close.

Sherlock couldn’t very well turn his face away now, so he just focused on his hands in his lap. John gave him a moment. His breath was warm on Sherlock’s face as John sighed. His warm palm cradled Sherlock’s chin and brought his eyes to meet John’s.

      “Are you scared? Of _me_?” John asked. His eyes were so incredibly blue. Sherlock was suddenly very angry at himself for wasting so much time looking elsewhere.

      “Yes,” Sherlock rasped. He hadn’t meant to say that and answer truthfully, but John was awfully close. They’d reached the top of the circuit and the night was cold and bright around them— everything felt just… _real_.

John chuckled, a deep rumbling thing that Sherlock could feel in his own limbs. The limbs that were currently pressed against John.

      “You’re ridiculous. You have nothing to be scared of,” John explained.

      “I have _everything_ to be scared of, John,” Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, “do you know how many different ways I could ruin this? I’ve no idea why you wanted to ask me in the first place, and how— how can I keep you here when there’s nothing, nothing for me to talk about, to impress you with, and—"

      “Stop,” John said, increasing the pressure in the hand holding Sherlock’s chin so that he would focus back on John.

 _John_.

      “Do you know how bloody long it took me to work up the courage to ask you out tonight?” John asked.

Sherlock considered, trailing back through the various encounters in their chemistry class, but that data was skewed and he could honestly not make an objective deduction. He’d been besotted with John Watson the first day he entered the advanced course, but was confident the blond boy had never looked twice at him. When John had caught him after class two weeks ago to exchange numbers and ask him out to the fair this evening, Sherlock had been thrown completely off guard.

      “No, I… I don’t,” Sherlock admitted.

      “Months. The moment you walked into the classroom, I was— I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t focus in class. I failed that first quiz after you showed up,” John said, smiling.

      “Why?” Sherlock asked, absolutely lost.

      “Because I couldn’t pay attention to anything except for you, you prat. I was obsessed. I’m still obsessed. The way your curls fell over your brow when you’d gone too long without a haircut, the restlessness of your legs during lectures, that calculating look in your eye when you were five steps ahead of the teacher. The smirk when you let loose one of your brilliant deductions,” John said.

      “You…” Sherlock tried, but couldn’t make sense of it.

      “I am utterly besotted. I like you very much, Sherlock. There’s honestly very little you could do to put me off at this point,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his head slipping free of John’s grasp as he scoffed.

      “No,” John insisted, moving impossibly closer. Sherlock was pinned against the side of the seat now, though he found himself slightly less frantic than when the ride had begun. “I’m serious. Everything that makes you different, Sherlock— they’re all the things that drew me to you in the first place.”

Sherlock studied John, considering all of the ways he could be lying. All of the reasons why he _might_ lie. But his face… displayed nothing of the sort. John was telling the truth. And even with the evidence clearly set before Sherlock, he could hardly believe it.

John’s hand came back up to Sherlock’s face, caressing his cheek. It rested there, the moment holding between them. John glanced down at Sherlock’s lips, wetting his own. Sherlock knew this was the moment, and felt a bit like he was going to throw up. But John held the distance, and his breathing calmed. The heat still pulsed through his veins, but he no longer felt like he was going to die of a heart-attack.

It was enough time for his brain to begin churning again.

      “It won’t last,” Sherlock whispered.

      “I disagree, Mr. Holmes,” John replied, slowly closing the distance between them. “You’re jumping to a conclusion before you’ve gathered an adequate amount of data. _And_ ignoring the evidence right in front of you.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed of their own accord. He could feel John’s nose brushing against his. Slightly cold, they would both be reddened, their breath visible in the night. If he opened his eyes, he could confirm this. He just. Didn’t want to do that yet.

      “John,” Sherlock murmured, like it was a question. Like it was a plea. One that John was willing to answer.

John brought their mouths together, finally closing that distance. His lips were colder, the chilled air clinging to the moisture. Sherlock’s were dry, slightly chapped. Soft and thin, tentative against the enthusiasm of John’s mouth. He moved his lips over Sherlock’s, opening slightly to draw Sherlock’s upper lip between his, sucking gently. Just the smallest amount of pressure. Sherlock answered in kind, pushing forward.

A sigh escaped Sherlock’s own lips, his arms coming from the safe space of his lap and toward John’s shoulders. A tilt of John’s head and another tiny shift forward, and Sherlock’s mouth was opening fully in an effort to capture John’s, to push back into his space. Sherlock’s hands came up around John’s neck and tightened there. The tip of John’s tongue darted out, tentatively, and—

Someone coughed, quite rudely. And loud. And…close?

Sherlock and John broke away in an instant, glancing around to see that the ferris wheel had come to a complete stop. The door of their car had been pulled open, the ride operator waiting on the other side. His face was stern, but there was no mistaking the amusement in his eyes.

      “Seriously? Tell them to go snog somewhere else!” Someone shouted from the line to their left.

Sherlock extricated himself from John’s embrace, stumbling on unsteady feet as he exited the ride.

      “Sorry to uh… interrupt,” the ride operator said, offering a hand to John as he exited.

John waved him away.

      “No worries, mate. We should’ve been… paying a bit more attention,” John attempted to apologize, but couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

Sherlock was trying to urge him away. The crowd to the side was looking impatient, very cold, and slightly murderous. Now was not the time for a friendly chat.

The man gave John a quick wink and smiled at Sherlock before turning to gesture to the next couple in line, ushering them forward. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, finally leading them away.

      “Might wanna give that one over there a go,” the ride operator called over his shoulder. John turned.

      “What’s that?” John asked, pausing but not taking his arm away from Sherlock. He huddled closer into John’s warm, wool coat.

      “That one,” The operator gestured as the wheel turned, bearing the next cart for the switch of occupants. “Much warmer, two seaters, and lasts about… 30 minutes. No interruptions.”

He threw another salacious wink at John before turning back to the ride.

John and Sherlock both followed his direction, eyes falling upon the gaudy ' **LOVE BOAT** ' ride at the same time. Sherlock felt his face flame with embarrassment, while John lost himself to giggles.

He started to lead them toward the new ride until he glanced at Sherlock’s mortified expression and immediately stopped.

      “Sherlock, oh no— I’m sorry. We don’t need to— that is, I know you’re probably still nervous, and that’s just—“ John began, attempting to reassure Sherlock.

He would have none of it.

      “Nonsense, John,” Sherlock declared, though his voice cracked slightly. His cheeks may have been a shade of red that was well beyond the influence of the temperature outside, but he was no coward. Not about this, not anymore. John Watson  _liked_ him _. Very much._

He grasped John’s hand and pulled him toward the ride in question. John gaped after him, eyebrows rising toward his hairline.

      “After all, we’ve only just begun,” Sherlock smirked, tugging John forward.


End file.
